Run into the hall of mirrors and lose yourself for a few hours! This rite-of-passage story has it all: it is eerie and familiar, funny and moving, beautiful and terrifying. All that and a new twist on Irish folklore too.
But before the word 'mother' emerged, she clutched his hand once more, drew him, step by step, over the enormous guy-ropes that led like parallel strings on a concert harp to a canvas entrance beyond. Some words were forbidden here, it seemed. Mother and spice amongst them. And he was remembering a nursery rhyme, when the curl of her hand diverted him once more. Mother and spice and all things nice. No, it wasn't mother, he fretted: sugar - sugar and spice - when her fingers rubbed off his palm and he felt that tingle again and was confronted with yet another reality.